It Takes a Village
by cynomynn
Summary: It takes a lot more than one person to fix unrequited love; at least for Sherlock Holmes... Rated T for mild sexual content.
1. Harriet Watson

**_It Takes a Village_**

**A/N:** This is my first Sherlock fic, dear readers. I'm quite taken with it (but mostly with Sherlock, haha). The plan of action is to have some serious Johnlock angst going on here at the beginning, and a happy, fluffy ending. Everything but the last chapter(s) will be from the perspective of one of John or Sherlock's family/friends/colleagues (this first chapter is John's sister Harry). You get to watch the UST unfold, nonnies! Also, this has been beta'd, but not Britpicked. If you see any of my silly little Americanisms slip through, please feel free to poke fun! (and then tell me where they are so I can fix them.)

Anyway. No spoilers, no super-explicit stuff, just good ol' "Sherlock is bad at emotions" fun. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Chapter 1: Harry_

Harriet Watson knew begging when she heard it. She also, by virtue of living with him for near twenty years, knew the sound of her brother's voice. She did not, however, think that she would ever hear the two combined.

"_Please_, Mycroft," Harry hears through the walls of 221b, "You _have_ to get him out of the flat. Just for a _day_. _Please_!" Harry cautiously leans her ear towards the door, balanced precariously on the landing. Carrying two overnight duffels up the seventeen stairs (it was an obscene number of steps, if you asked her) was no easy feat.

Harry hears no response, and assumes that John is either talking on his mobile or the bloke he's conversing with is extremely quiet. John pipes up again. "Well, thanks for nothing, you bloody useless prick!" Harry catches the beep of a disconnect over the phone and an angry huff, a sound she's quite familiar with. Over the mobile, then. She presses the shell of her ear against the door more firmly, hoping to hear more, but is startled when her brother opens the door in a rush.

Harry, ever the epitome of grace, falls flat on her arse.

"Harry! What're you doing here so early? You weren't supposed to come by until this evening!" John's eyebrows are knit with a mix of concern for her and an unnamed terror that Harry can't place. He grasps her firmly by the wrist, yanks her up off the floor, and draws her into a bear hug. "It's been ages!" he smiles into her tumble-mussed hair. Harry decides not to mention her wee bit of eavesdropping.

"Sorry," she says instead, "Had to get out early. The row got uglier this morning and–" John cuts her off with a finger to her lips, like he used to do when they were kids avoiding trouble and Harry struggled with the temptation to cry out in fear. It warms her aching heart, and she's glad she came to stay with John instead of paying for a motel room. John grabs a hold of one of her bags, and beckons her into the flat with a wave.

"Nice place you got here." she quips, unable to control herself. The place looks like a tornado blasted through, what with all the papers, books, and odd-looking equipment strewn about.

"Sorry about the mess." John smiles apologetically. "I was going to tidy up, but you got here ahead of schedule."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it." she pats him on the head affectionately, something she enjoys doing immensely, him being shorter and all. "I'm used to it." She can taste the awkwardness in the air, so she strides to the middle of the room, places her hand on her hips, cracks her back, and declares, "I could sure use a drink!" John's eyes widen in horror. "Only taking the piss, John. Calm down." She winks, and he relaxes. "Where's the flatmate from hell?" she inquires. She's heard quite a bit about this Sherlock character from John since they made up, and she has eagerly awaited meeting the man that tried the infamous patience of Doctor John Hamish Watson.

"Working," says her brother, looking a bit wistful. "He'll probably be back soon."

"Soon?!" Harry pouts. "I was looking forward to going through his stuff. And some one-on-one time." John pulls a face, but Harry winks again so he knows she's only joking. With a glance around the flat, she asks, "Where should I put my things?"

"You can take my room." John points up some more stairs. Harry lugs her bags up them (frowning at them as if they had personally affronted her) and tosses them into John's sparse bedroom. She contemplates snooping around a little, but decides that she'll have plenty of time for that later.

She flounces back down the stairs and flops onto the couch, throwing an arm over her face with a melodramatic sigh. "Cuppa?" John asks, and Harry nods. John meanders towards the kitchen and rummages around, presumably looking for the kettle. Predictable, dependable brother John. Harry busies herself inspecting the flat. Under the mess, she could see a touch of her brother here and there: the armchair across the room had a crocheted blanket draped across the back; there were teacups everywhere; one of his jumpers curiously hung from the dilapidated coat tree. And then there were signs of the mysterious flatmate: a long, blue, very un-John scarf rested atop his jumper; a fluffy-looking duvet was crumpled in the corner, and various scientific-looking odds and ends were strewn across nearly every available surface. _Weird_, she thinks.

John hands her a cup of chamomile tea, her favorite, and she sighs. He smiles and sits in his armchair, scooting it around so they're facing each other. They make small talk (mostly about the weather), and laugh like they haven't since Harry started drinking, and the day starts to look better. Until the door slams open, and a tall, regal, raven-haired man blusters through the door.

"John! This case is simply extraordinary! The murderer, ohh, he's a smart one – I love the smart ones – he's struck again! Come _on_, Joh–" he narrows his sharp almond eyes at Harry and purses his lips. Harry simultaneously feels like she's being ripped to shreds by a vicious animal and vivisected carefully by a scientist. She shivers against her will. John pales and flounders, flapping his mouth open and closed like a goldfish.

"Harriet Watson, I presume?" the tall man asks. A barely-there twitch of brows and lips lets Harry know that he's less than pleased. This must be the flatmate, Harry decides.

"And you must be Sherlock Holmes. Charmed, I'm sure," she replies wryly, imitating his ridiculously posh voice. She almost regrets only being into women. This one's pretty.

"She won't forgive you this time," he says sharply. Harry raises her own eyebrows.

"Who won't?"

"Clara." He sounds long-suffering and very put-upon. Harry doesn't like his tone; he obviously thinks she's an idiot. And Harry _does not_ like being thought of as an idiot. Because she's not.

"How'd you know about Clara?" She already knows the answer; of _course_ John's told her about his flatmate's ability to...deduce?...things. Didn't mention how irritating it was, though.

"Oh, no, you _don't,_ Sherlock!" leaping to his feet, Harry's soldier of a brother manhandles his flatmate around the armchairs, all the while ranting about "show-offs" and "bloody Holmeses." Harry hides a grin as John shoves the door of another room open and yanks his taller friend in by his collar. Harry giggles a bit, imagining something naughty is happening behind that closed door; things she'd rather John never found out about.

Harry sits alone, rubbing her chin in a quite evil-looking manner, wondering if she could make those naughty things come true. After all, without Clara or the bottle, Harry's modes of entertainment are significantly reduced. Setting John up with his pretty flatmate could be _very_ entertaining. And it would prove her bigoted parents wrong, which would give Harry, the older-but-not-the-favourite child, no end of joy.  
The door creaks open a good while later, and John looks harried and tired. His tea's gone cold, and he pulls a suitably disgusted face when he realizes this. Harry snorts and hands him a mug that she prepared especially for him (the kitchen was a mess too, as she discovered whilst plotting).

"Must be nice, living with a genius." Sarcasm has always been Harry's strong point, and she uses it liberally. Except when she's sloshed, of course.

"You have absolutely _no_ idea. He makes mum and dad look like bloody angels." Remembering the two-in-the-morning rows, thrown furniture, and general chaos that was their parents' marriage, Harry grimaces.

"Tell me about him." John lowers himself gently into one of the armchairs. It's the one without the crocheted monstrosity, and Harry thinks that's odd, since she figured that John's blanket was on John's armchair. "How did you two meet? You've never really explained."

"Well. I guess it all started when I ran into Mike Stamford. You know, from Uni..."

And at that point, Harry stops hearing him. She'd intended to listen to John's story, she really did. But, seeing as how the look on her brother's face was so much more interesting, and she's already read the story (of_ course_ she's read John's blog, he's her little brother, for Christ's sake, and she worries about him_ constantly_)...she focussed on his expression. He was saying something about a man named Angelo, and he's waving his hands around crazily, like he used to when he told bedtime stories. There's a glow-spark-fire in his blue eyes that Harry hasn't seen since he joined the army, and a little smile wrinkles his eyes when his mouth occasionally closes. This John is the polar opposite of the one she saw yank his flatmate into the other room. He's jabbering on as if this is the best bedtime story _ever_ told, and it reminds her of when she used to tell her friends about Clara.

How John copes with this sty of a flat, Harry will never know. She noticed that it was a mess before, but, by God, now that she was really looking at it, it was _worse_. There are holes in the wall, a skull (of all things) on the mantle, files and scarves strewn about everywhere. There's not a clean surface in the tiny kitchen, as every available one is covered in beakers and pipettes and other_ junk_.

Harry tunes back in near the end of the story. "And, it turned out that the bloke who kidnapped me was his brother! They have this staring match, and Sherlock says something mean, and then we just stroll off back to Angelo's. It was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me, and I invaded Afghanistan." He chuckles to himself, he's on the inside of some joke, and then sighs and settles back into his armchair. At some point during the retelling, he'd edged his way to the very tip of the cushion. He looks at Harry expectantly.

"Sorry, I caught almost none of that." she says honestly. "I was too distracted by the goo-goo eyes you're making at your _male_ flatmate." John sighs again, and this time it's not a happy one, it's exasperated, and Harry smiles.

"It's not like that, Harry. He doesn't...work...like that. And I'm _not_ gay!" John pouts, and Harry barely resists the urge to pinch his cheeks, exactly how Aunt Imogen used to do at Christmas.

Something about John's tone implies that he wishes Sherlock did indeed _work like that_. "I find it interesting that you mentioned him before yourself in that situation." Harry observes. "_Very_ interesting." John's frown cuts into his forehead now, but it's tinged with an edge of something Harry would call sadness, so she can ignore the anger, and she is finally enjoying herself. Nothing is as fulfilling as irritating the piss out of your younger brother, after all.

"Will you people stop reading into something that isn't there? Lestrade, Donovan, and even bloody _Molly _are convinced I'm shagging him when I'm _not_! I don't think I can take it from you, too!"

"Alright, John, alright!" she says, waving her hands placatingly at her brother, who's ready to chuck his now-empty mug at her. "I won't mention that you're madly in love with your flatmate ever again!" She can't resist that one, final, devious, dig. John growls at her, actually _growls_ at her.

"I can barely even _stand _him sometimes, Harry! With the three in the morning violin concertos, the _constant_ moping, the insults to my intelligence, kidnappings, _body parts _hidden across the place, and damage to my person, you'd think I'd've gone crazy by now! I found _human intestines_ hung about the shower-head yesterday, Harry! Do you know how many times I've thought about just up and leaving? He's horrible!" her brother shifts back around for a better sulking position, and that's when John sees Sherlock standing behind him in the room, looking as if he's just unwittingly swallowed a lemon.


	2. Gregory Lestrade

**_It Takes a Village_**

**A/N: **I feel like I owe you all an explanation, due to the overwhelming influx of "aww, poor Sherlock!'s"! Well, there are way too many "Sherlock says something that alienates John" fics out there, and not enough of the other way 'round! I felt like this was a reasonably accurate reversal (Sherlock has to be terrible to live with, after all!). Do I also owe you reassurance that everything will be all better by the end?

Anyway, Prepare yourselves for awkward!Mycroft. And trickery on a Sherlockian scale! Enjoy, and know that feedback is always appreciated!

* * *

**_Chapter 2: Lestrade_**

Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade is well acquainted with paperwork. It's a vital part of the machine that is the Met, and he doesn't begrudge it. Much. Most of the time.

Paperwork involving Sherlock's_ shenanigans_, on the other hand, was a living hell that Lestrade didn't think he'd ever escape. It was a never-ending pit of forms and files and supervisors yelling at him and just when he thought he was finally surfacing from the morass of complaints and concerns and issues and reprimands, Sherlock did _something else_ and there was more, more, more paperwork, and more, more, more of Donovan's smug looks and Anderson's 'I-told-you-so's' and Gregson's gloating and Dimmock's pitying glances and Lestrade was _tired_, and he had an absolutely _horrid _headache from staring at the tiny letters on the computer screen, and he was _still_ wet from jumping into the Thames earlier today to rescue a suspect that Sherlock had nearly driven to suicide. He sighs and scrubs his hands down his face, and he can _feel_ the bags under his eyes. He's pretty sure that his bags have bags. And it's not even noon yet.

Lestrade is not looking forward to completing the rest of the pile. Nor is he looking forward to taking Sherlock's statement later (it'll only result in more paperwork). Lestrade isn't even looking forward to the informal get-together with the other officers later tonight, and those have always been fun. He just wants to go home and not have to worry about work, or office politics, or Sherlock, or _anything_, for once in his long, sad life. And sleep for seventy-two hours straight. He certainly deserves the vacation time.

Plucking up the courage to admit defeat at the hands of paperwork, Lestrade decides to go out for lunch. His wife packed him a nice bagged lunch, but she's got him on some sort of diet (again) and he really wants (needs) something greasy and comforting right about now. There's a pub about fifteen minutes walk from the Yard that he's heard has the best curry for miles, and he's been meaning to give it a whirl. Lestrade grabs his windbreaker and walks (sneaks) out the back door.

Which is, of course, when he literally runs into the_ last _person he wants to see. Well, not _the_ last, but as close to it you could conceivably get without the detective having a mental breakdown. Lestrade would very much like to make it through the day without one of those.

"Detective-Inspector, I require your assistance," intones the man with the posh coal-gray suit and the pristine brolly and the _pretentious_ smile. "Immediately, if it's not an inconvenience."

Lestrade groans. Ever polite, he nods in assent, saying, "Sure, Mr. Holmes. It's not like I've got anything better to do." Lestrade keeps walking, though, determined to, for once, not let his entire life be_ completely_ derailed by one of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft silently trails behind him at a respectful distance all the way to the pub.

Lestrade ends up ordering the largest bowl of curry on the menu and water. He'd rather have a pint, but he's still on the job, and, well...he's not terribly sure that being buzzed around the elder Holmes would be the best decision he ever made. He practically falls into one of the booths at the corner of the low-lit pub, hoping both for comfort and a modicum of privacy. Tucking into the curry immediately, he wonders if Mycroft's conversation will ruin his appetite like Sherlock's always do.

"Detective-Inspector," the other man begins, folding neatly into the booth across from the detective. "I was–"

"Greg."

"Excuse me?" A slight rumpling around Mycroft's eyes lets Lestrade know that the younger man is confused. He's gotten good at reading people lately; probably thanks to Sherlock. Lestrade shivers when the thought that _Sherlock _might be rubbing off on _him_ flits across his mind. Shaking his head minutely to clear that disturbing thought away, Lestrade resigns himself to a very awkward and annoyingly formal conversation.

"Call me Greg. It's just weird, calling me Detective-Inspector, outside of work, yeah?" Lestrade shovels in curry for all he's worth and waits for Mycroft to get to the point. He thinks he might even prefer his wife's company to Mycroft's at this point, and that's saying something. The woman does tend to go on and on and _on_...

"...Yes. Well...Greg," Mycroft winces a bit at the informality of it all, and Lestrade heroically resists the urge to smirk. "As you well know, my little brother has taken quite a liking to Doctor Watson. As of late, he's been a little bit more, shall we say, human? to those surrounding him. One has to wonder, what is it exactly about Doctor Watson that has had such an impact upon Sherlock. As of late, their relationship seems to be getting even clos–"

"Can we get to the point here, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade has finished hoarking down his lunch, and he's a little bit annoyed that his planned mealtime peace and solitude was interrupted for more of Mycroft's ridiculous posturing. Greg checks his watch. "I've got to be back at the Yard soon."

Mycroft sighs in a melodramatic way (but is more subtle than any of Sherlock's noises of disapproval by a long shot). "Yes. It seems that my brother ran out of his flat earlier today, with no explanation, in only his dressing gown. If my people are to be believed, he looked to be in obvious distress;" the _nothing about Sherlock is obvious_ goes unspoken, "which you'll agree is quite uncharacteristic of him."

"Are you sure it's not for a case? Sherlock has a way of–"

"Yes, Mr Lestrade," Mycroft reverts back to formality in his agitated state, "I am well aware of my brother's work habits. I reviewed the...evidence...myself, and have come to the conclusion that Sherlock was experiencing some kind of emotional breakdown."

Something clicks in Lestrade's brain. _He's asking for my help_, the detective thinks. _With what, I'm not sure, since Sherlock never tells me where he's off to, but I guess I'll give it a go._

"If you're asking where he's gone, I don't know what tell you. I don't really know him all that well; you should probably ask John, not me."

"Oh, I know exactly where Sherlock is, Lestrade. The streets have eyes, you know." Mycroft smiles an empty smile, and Greg thinks that Mycroft cares more about his little brother than he's willing to let on. "And asking Doctor Watson for assistance isn't an option, as I believe he may be the cause of my brother's odd behaviour. I need someone to talk him out of...whatever it is he's doing."

"Why can't you talk to him? You're his brother, after all."

"Too much history, Detective-Inspector. He will never listen to anything I have to say. As you are the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend, other than the doctor, of course, I've come to you."

Lestrade wonders for an instant what would happen if he refused. Actually contemplates doing it, too. He could go back to the Met, do his damn paperwork, go home to his wife when the day was over. And then he remembers that this is Mycroft bloody _Holmes_ he's talking to: he'd probably be packed away into one of those sleek black cars, never to be seen again.

"Alright. What d'you want me to do?" he asks finally.

"Here's the address." Mycroft hands him a piece of paper with "EC1A 7BE" done in neat, handwritten letters. _Huh,_ Lestrade thinks. _Wouldn't have thought he'd've gone to Barts. Seems a tad obvious for him._ The silver-haired policeman stuffs the paper into his pocket and stands up. "He is sitting in the morgue, the last I checked. Just...talk to him. That should be sufficient." Mycroft pleads, placing a hand awkwardly on Lestrade's wrist.

"I'll do what I can, Mr Holmes, but I'm not promising anything," the detective hedges, "Like I told you, he never listens to a word I say."

"That's all I ask for." Mycroft smiles another one of his smiles that never reach his eyes and shakes Lestrade's hand.

The tired detective wanders out of the pub, not sure what exactly he did to deserve being caught up in Sherlock's drama. Whatever it was, he regrets it inestimably. He waves down a cab (he regrets walking to the pub, now: a squad car would be faster than a cab, if less discreet) and barks out the address to the cabbie. He briefly hopes that this one isn't like the last cabbie he came into contact with.

Luckily, Lestrade arrives at the hospital without being coerced into suicide. He shoves too many notes at the driver's face, in a hurry to get this 'talk to Sherlock' thing over and done with. He flashes his badge as he strolls through the door of the A&E, not wanting to be sidetracked (any more than he already is). He asks a nurse (no, an intern, she's got a different badge and _oh god he would never have known that before Sherlock_) to tell him where the morgue is located, please, and yes, it's official business; she points him towards the back. Lestrade, who's always been put off by the antiseptic air of hospitals, practically jogs in the indicated direction.

When he levers the heavy, cold door of the morgue open, (surprising poor Miss Hooper half to death; you really would think she'd be used to unexpected entrances by now) and there's a balloon wearing a wig and Sherlock's Belstaff propped over a chair (_which must have tricked Mycroft,_ thinks Lestrade), but the consulting detective himself is nowhere to be found.


	3. Mummy Holmes

**_It Takes a Village_**

**A/N:** Real life has gotten in the way just a bit, loves. Sorry for the forever-long update time around here. But I digress. Enjoy!

* * *

**_Chapter 3: Mummy_**

Mrs Anais Holmes does not get many visitors. Isolation was her preferred state of being. That had been the point of living out in the isolation of the English countryside. When she had been younger (and William, God rest his soul, was there to keep her from mortally offending any of the guests), a myriad of people breezed in and out of her household daily despite the location. Mrs Holmes had never been a friendly woman, and had only put up with the constant company because she knew it made her late husband happy. They didn't, anymore. Visit, that is; she was quite sure that they still made William happy, wherever he was. Regardless, she didn't like people, and people didn't like her, and this was perfectly acceptable arrangement in her shrewd eyes. They can keep their inane gossip and idiotic thoughts on her life to themselves, and she can keep her sanity. But, she digresses. Mrs Anais Holmes doesn't get many visitors.

Which is why it is such a surprise when her youngest son shows up on the doorstop of her pretty Victorian home.

"Sherlock! What are you doing all the way out here?" she demands. This visit is most unexpected, and she's in her gardening clothes, and she hasn't dyed her hair recently, and the roots are iron gray instead of the former black. Not the height of presentability. Mrs Holmes dismisses this thought when she catches sight of what her progeny is wearing: bedclothes and a nightie. Good Lord.

"Mummy," he greets, kissing her on the cheek (avoiding the smudges of dirt) and carefully not answering her question. He brushes past her and flops into her settee. She shakes her head, suddenly missing the way he used to jump all over the furniture when he was small. She follows him shortly, and, with endless tact that she has never been known for, says nothing. She knows _something_ is wrong with her baby boy; he never comes 'round unless there is, the last time he had been considering taking up cocaine again. But she also knows, from thirty-plus years of experience, that asking him about it won't help one iota. She sits down in her rocking chair, picks up a novel, and ignores her newly arrived son.

Well, tries to. He fidgets constantly. Makes little sounds of half-frustration, half-despair (that wrench her heart, to be perfectly honest, but she perseveres). Taps little rhythms on the arm of the sofa. She recognizes one as Paganini's 24th _Caprice_, a personal favorite of hers. He even moves to leave several times. She's been meaning to read this book, though, and it's no time to get distracted by Sherlock's nervous tics.

She is just getting to the part where the young, spry fisherman admits his love to the young heiress when Sherlock finally pipes up. She estimates it's been five hours since he arrived – time enough to stop squirming around and figure out what he wanted to say – and she's ready to get this sorted so she can spend some quality time with her youngest.

"Mummy," he repeats, but less composed this time (there's a little quiver in his voice that she'd hoped she'd never hear again), "I may have made a grievous mistake."

"What is it this time, Sherlock?" she sighs, expecting the worst. _Drugs. Murder. Financial ruin. Another of Mycroft's international scandals._ He stays silent and wrings his hands together. She notices sweat on his brow, the flickering of his eyes from one place to the next, the quick _tap-tap-tap_ of his slipper-ed foot on the hardwood floor. _Nervous. Unsure._ _The slightest tinge of fear. _"Tell me how it happened, dear." Mrs Holmes settles in for the long run next to him on the couch with a quick '_budge up_.' Sherlock's explanations are never short, and they are never easy to follow.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and says, "This morning, everything was progressing as usual, John made tea and read the paper; there was nothing interesting, he always wrinkles his nose just so when the paper is dull. I was bored as well, so I went by Barts. I purloined some kidneys to experiment upon. Not important.

"When I returned to the flat, John's alcoholic sister was there poking around, and he was angry with me, and this time I'm quite certain it wasn't my fault – I hadn't even been home to be angry with! – he banished me to my room so he and his sister could spend some quality time together, he wasn't really looking forward to it, he thought that she'd been drinking again, which is utter nonsense; she's been sober for around six months by my estimate.

"I swear, before you berate me for eavesdropping, Mummy, that I wasn't, I really wasn't; I only came out of my room to use the loo, and John was saying '_I can barely even stand him sometimes, Harry! With the three in the morning violin concertos, the constant moping, the insults to my intelligence, kidnappings, body parts hidden across the place, and damage to my person, you'd think I'd've gone crazy by now! I found human intestines hung about the shower-head yesterday, Harry! Do you know how many times I've thought about just up and leaving? He's horrible!' _

"I observed that I had an unexpected heart palpitation and my hands went clammy in direct response to his declaration; I also felt an unexplained desire to vacate the flat. I did so immediately when I judged that it was in the best interests of my health.

"What does it all mean, Mummy? What's wrong with me?" he says all in one breath, his voice growing ever smaller.

_Not another international scandal, after all. _Mrs Holmes smiles, and don't think it's because he son is in emotional distress. Oh, no, she's not _that _bad a mother. She's met this young John Watson, seen how Sherlock looks at him (like he's the most wonderful, unsolvable puzzle in all creation) and she's ninety-two percent certain she knows _exactly_ what's going on here. She hadn't been sure it ever would happen, if she was perfectly honest with herself. _Finally, _she thinks to herself, more than a tad over and patting Sherlock's cheek, she explains, "Don't worry about it at all, dear. John's just being a typical male of the species."

Sherlock frowns, crosses his arms petulantly and pouts a bit more. She recognizes his old manipulation technique, and grins a bit wider. When would he learn that she was wise to all his tricks? "Could you be any more cryptic if you tried?" he grumps.

"Of course I could, but I won't for your sake, dear. All you need to know is that you've done nothing wrong. John's _not_ going to leave you."

Sherlock perks up a bit, but another thought flicks across his brain (she can see it come and go, rather like a the perpetrator of a drive-by shooting: there one minute, and gone by the time you realize the damage that's been done). "All evidence suggests otherwise." He wilts like a flower and folds in on himself.

Way back when, she ran home crying to her own mother about William, curled into a ball of fears and tears and tissues. It was high time that she passed on her mum's wise words, but she doubted Sherlock would take anything she said on the matter to heart. So she says instead, "Then you must not have examined _all_ the evidence." She laid a hand over his heart, warm and beating erratically.

She ruffles his mop of curls, earning a withering glare, and retreats to the sun-room; Sherlock needed more time than most to process that funny little thing called sentiment, and he'd need to do it on his own. _Forced out of my own living space,_ she chuckles to herself.

* * *

It's much later, and her garden is shaping up quite nicely. So far, she's planted oregano, rosemary, mint, and basil. She contemplates planting dill as well, but then recalls the Great Herb Incident of 1982 and decides against it. She rubs some of the damp loam from her fingers onto her apron, claps her hands, and leans back on her haunches. She scrubs her forearms against her face, wiping off the sweat that came with the unseasonably warm day and physical labor.

Mrs Holmes strolls back into the house. Sherlock hasn't moved or spoken in thirty-six hours (Mrs Holmes could honestly say that it had probably been longer than that since he'd eaten anything). He's still "praying;" his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips (anyone who knew him even in passing would never believe the position had anything to do with any deity); and Mrs Holmes has _had it_ up to _here_, and is about to say so, when Sherlock gasps.

"I've figured it all out, Mummy!" And she heaves a sigh of relief.

"Ice! The murder weapon was ice, so simple, how could I not have seen it _before_, the victims were all soaking wet, but not near any water, no weapons to be found; mineral particulates in the wounds that Molly couldn't place, and the only one with access to the dining area and the freezer after-hours is, obviously, the head chef." And Mrs Holmes sucks her relief back in. How is it that she raised _two_ complete and utter _morons_? Really, they were well into their thirties; Mycroft was creeping up on forty. Weren't they supposed to have settled down with a happy family by now? That's what all the parenting handbooks said. Maybe they inherited the utter lack of common sense from their father, because it certainly wasn't from her side of the family tree.

She grabs hold of him by an ear and yanks him up off the sofa, thoroughly, thoroughly, _sick_ and _tired _of having to explain everything as she would to a five-year-old. She sweeps open the door and pushes her youngest son out onto the stoop, where he promptly lands (if you'll excuse her language) on his bony arse. She points in the vague direction of London. "Out. Go home, talk to John. _Now,_" she demands, her tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock, looking awfully forlorn, turns away from the door and starts walking out towards the kerb. "You're no help at all, Mummy." he scoffs.

Anais Holmes watches as her baby boy leaves the nest again, utterly unprepared for Life, the Universe, and Everything in a way no child should ever be.

"He's in _love_ with you, dolt!" she yells after him, not without affection. She locks the door with a loud click, ensuring that Sherlock couldn't come creeping back before he's talked to John.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope Sherlock wasn't too OOC for you guys; but I assure you that it was at least _partly_ intentional. A mother's love tends to skew things, yeah?


	4. Mike Stamford

**A/N: **Stamford's really only mentioned twice in the show, and that makes yours truly a little sad. He's only the catalyst for the entire story.

_Chapter Four: Mike Stamford_

A lot of people thought that Sherlock was the difficult one when they met the boys of 221B. Mike Stamford would be the first to tell you to shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down, because he's got stories to tell. There was the one about the time he'd got John into a friendly game of truth or dare, and several people had gone home missing teeth. Or the one about the time John slugged one of the head honcho cops. Or when he broke out through Steve's window when he tried to get John to stay and sleep when Sherlock had asked him to help on a case. Mike had a lot of stories from a lot of different sources.

He thinks he's got the making of another one on his hands right now, because John Watson, the _real_ difficult one, has his face planted in his stew and is incoherently moaning about the state of his home affairs. Mike really wished he hadn't volunteered to be the designated driver, because goddammit if he couldn't use a shot of whiskey _right this instant._

Mike was a man of simple pleasures. Watching telly with his daughter Cindy on Saturdays. Eating his wife's spaghetti. Teaching his blockhead students how to be proper doctors (as much as he professed to hate them, he really did care for those stupid kids), having a drink with his friends. Playing chess with an idiot. Hearing a good song over the radio. A sly bit of matchmaking. Notice how 'comforting John Watson whilst being denied alcohol' is not on the list. Not even tangentially.

Banishing thoughts of sweet, sweet whiskey from his mind, Mike takes a sip of ginger-ale and slams his glass on the bar.

This was the third time this month John had come running to him in tears – well, as near tears as the former soldier could ever get. Even though his friend had never been particularly inclined to dramatic shows of emotion, Stamford supposed that being reduced to a blubbering mess was one of those things that came with being Sherlock's best friend.

The first time John had come calling had been "no-case-related," as Mike liked to call it. He doesn't begrudge John those times, mostly. Mike knew (rather intimately, much to his eternal chagrin) how Sherlock could be when he didn't have a case. The six-foot git of a detective had a nasty habit of cutting people's emotions to shreds when he got bored, and John was no exception. The second time had been when Sherlock had apparently stormed out in his pyjamas. Today, the sixth day of Sherlock's supposed disappearance, was the third time.

But honestly, if those two would just act like any other sensible adults and start shagging already, he wouldn't be nearly out of chocolate digestives. Which, by the way, John had been shoveling into his mouth by the fistful. He made a mental note to pick up more when he dropped by Tesco's. Why had he brought along his last box in the first place?

John groans into his dinner, and Mike awkwardly tries to comfort him. "He's done this before, John. And he'll do it again. I don't see why you're so worked up about it."

"But this 's _different,_ Mike! It's m' fault, I drove 'im away, I practic'ly shouted that I _hated_ him and now 's out there somewhere, prob'ly cold and alone, and oh _god_ he hadn't eaten for two _days_ when he left!" John wails through the stew. Really, this was indecent for a man of his age. He was acting like a jilted bride. A _drunken_ jilted bride, as the empty beer bottles surrounding them would proclaim.

Mike knows he isn't the smartest bloke around, but he knows that his gut was usually one hundred percent, abso-fucking-lutely correct, and said gut is tingling like mad. Mike hasn't picked out what it's trying to tell him quite yet, but he thinks it's something big.

"I'm sure he's eaten since then. He's not utterly defenseless, you know. He does manage to survive when you aren't around." Mike shuddered, remembering how much more insufferable Sherlock had been back before John, and how awful he'd looked when he came back from God-knows-where. Now that he thought about it though, those razor cheekbones and protruding ribs did seem a little less sharp. Sherlock had been gaining weight with John around.

John whined about it being his fault again, and the loop started over. Normally, John could just power through whatever asinine and insensitive comments Sherlock made. John only got like this when he felt guilty, or when the problem _had_ been at least _partially_ his fault. Mike was getting tired of this ridiculousness, and like he said earlier, about the shagging and the biscuits...

_Whump._ There goes the gut again. Mike tries to ignore it, he's got a nice little train of thought going on, and while he appreciated his gut trying to protect his brain from thoughts of John and Sherlock having s–_whump!_

Oh. _Oh, oh, oh, that's it! _Stamford's little epiphany goes unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Thankfully, John included.

"John, when was the last time you went out on a date?" Mike inquires innocently and out of the blue. He fiddled with the straw in his drink, trying to seem nonchalant. If John guess where Mike was going before he got there, this would end badly for all parties involved. The shorter doctor levered his head out of the stew and hummed his confusion.

"Date, John. When was the last time you went out on a date? You know, two people going out to have fun together? Romantically?"

John sniggered. Mike doesn't understand what the joke is, and remains unamused.

"John." Mike says in his doctor's voice, hoping that it'll work now that John is plastered. "When?"

John wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. He scratches his head and rubs at some of the stew smeared across his face with an already defiled napkin. Mike waits patiently, his leg bobbing up and down nervously.

John opens his mouth and screws up his face a couple of times, rather like the goldfish Mike bought Cindy a few years ago. "Wha's the ques-shun again?"

Mike groans and leans his face into his hands. He counts the number of empty beers lining the table, and realizes than he probably shouldn't be surprised at John's non-answer.

"John, this is important." Mike shoves on the ex-soldier's shoulders a bit to convey his seriousness. "The most recent one I remember you telling me about was Jeanette, and that was two Christmases ago."

John cocks his head to the side and smiles lazily. "She told me I 's a good boyfriend."

"No, she told you you were a good boyfriend _for Sherlock_. She broke up with you on Christmas Day. Over Sherlock. I distinctly remember having that conversation."

Mr Cuddly Jumpers frowns. "She 's the las' one, Mike." he makes some sort of grand hand gesture the Mike can't quite interpret.

"The last date? You've not gone on a date in two years?" Mike hides the broad smile he feels growing. Still frowning, John shakes his head. "Not even while Sherlock was...gone?" Stamford asks delicately. John bites his lip, and with a gut-wrenchingly sorrowful look in his blue eyes, shakes his head again.

"Where's all this goin', Mike?" John slurrs.

Mike can't hold in the grin any longer, and he smiles slyly as he admits, "All in good time, dear Watson." Stamford waves his hand to the bartendress and orders John several shots of liqueur. He waits for John to down one before continuing his interrogation.

"How does Sherlock take his tea?"

"With sugar. Why?" John says, narrowing his alcohol-clouded eyes.

"Does he snore?"

"No, Mike ser'sly–" Mike shoves another shot at him as he interrupts with another question.

"Who's his favourite composer?"

"Antonio Lolli. I don't se–"

"Favourite food?"

"He'll eat what's on my plate, but not on his. He always likes lasagna, though."

Another shot.

"What was the last compliment he gave you?"

"He said that I wasn't as stupid as the rest of the Commonwealth and that my blue jumper really complimented my eyes–"

"How did that make you feel?"

"Good, I s'pose–"

"What side of the bed does he sleep on?"

"The middle–" Shot.

"Favourite color?"

"Dark blue–" Shot.

"You his only friend?"

"Ye–" Shot.

"Did you ever _really_ mind when he ruined your dates?"

"Yes, wait – no, but–"

"When did you realize you're in love with him?"

"The day he came back! Jesus, Mike! I really don't see where this is going! I–" Mike just sat and watched with a grin bigger than the cat that ate the canary while John looked suitably dumbfounded.

"Oh. I – _oh_." John, still drunk but now perfectly aware of what Stamford had done, planted his face back in the stew. "You're killing me. All of you are going to kill me." he mumbles.

And Stamford smiles.


	5. Violet Hunter

**A/N:** Has anyone _ever _believed their mother when she's told you that somebody is in love with you? She's your mum, her _job_ is to tell you that people love you! And so enters...

_Chapter Five: Violet Hunter_

Violet Hunter hates it when her friends ask her about work. She knows she should find it interesting; she works at an art gallery for God's sake. She's an _artist._ And studying to be a _psychologist_. This. Should be. Fascinating.

But it's not. It's really, really not. It's a _modern_ art museum, and (she's tried and tried and tried again) she just doesn't understand this shit. How are red and blue circles plus a line representative of the human race? Of emotion? Violet doesn't know. Nor does she particularly care. Adolph Gottlieb can shove his paintbrush up his arse. Oh wait, no, he's dead. Fuck.

Nonsensical mid-twentieth century art aside, Vi is so, so, so _bored_. Selling tickets at a dying museum? Not so intellectually stimulating (more like mind-numbingly, brain atrophying, brain-cell murdering). She grabs a purple pen (her favourite colour) and works on her overdue psychology essay for forty minutes before anyone graces her kiosk with their presence.

"How much are tickets?" a mousy old bag asks in a German-ish accent. "Eight euros," Violet replies, trying to be accommodating to other cultures. The woman hands her some bills and the register dings cheerfully as Vi gives her change and a ticket. Violet morosely hopes some of the more risque displays give the lady a heart attack.

It's hard to be herself when her place of employment is so incredibly stodgy.

More hours that Vi will never get back skate by as she waits for her lunch break. Only three more people buy tickets; she wonders how this place stays afloat with such low patronage. The owner's probably sleeping with a minor government official. _That's really the only explanation for it,_ she thinks.

The alarm on her mobile rings, and faster than a human eye could follow, Vi's handmade "Out for some fucking lunch, back when Hell freezes over" sign is taped on the clear glass of her ticket booth.

Lunch is the best part of the day. Her not-quite-boyfriend-but-more-than-a-flatmate Jeff always packs her something ridiculously delicious. Today's meal is farro risotto, going by the scrawled message pinned to the tupperware. Vi's favorite. Jeff always knew when she would have a particularly excruciating day at work. She pops that bad boy in the microwave in the "Employee Lounge," which is really more of a spare closet with an espresso machine and a microwave than an _actual_ lounge. She bounces out the front door, looking to see if anyone is occupying her lunch bench. No one is, thank goodness. Violet does not like sharing, and she likes using a different spot even less. She plops down into the middle (it's the best view of the park and the people in it) and eats her meal with one hand and draws the willow tree to the west with the other.

Vi always comes outside for lunch. It's a chance to escape the stifling air of the museum, and a chance to do some artistic people watching. She loves to draw the occasional jogger, or dog walker, or banged-up-knees-and-filthy-shirt kid. She loves to invent life stories for them, to draw them interacting with the park and with other people.

After the farro had been devoured, and a new note left for Jeph in the clean dish, her purple pen is switched for a more subdued graphite pencil, and the lined essay paper for her sketchbook. She flips past this week's drawings and tries not to smear the clean black and white images. She raises and squints her eyes, searching for the perfect subject.

She sees him almost immediately. Rarely does she get such perfectly drawable subjects. Those cheekbones. That hair. Oh, he's a pretty one. He's sitting, well, laying, actually, on a bench under the copse of trees to the west. He's talking to...is that a skull? A _human_ skull? God really was smiling down on her today. Farro risotto _and_ a perfect subject who isn't doing something mundane.

With a sort of a swish and flick of the graphite, Vi blocks out his hair, his face, the skull. She only allows herself to glance at him for a second at a time, partly to train herself to see quickly, and partly because she's been accused of being a stalker before and she'd rather not spend the rest of the day at the Met. Again. Jesus, some people were sensitive.

He looks miserably sad, all alone with that skull. Was he telling it his life's problems? Lamenting the state of the Commonwealth? Contemplating a lost love? In any case, her drawing is almost photo-realistic today. Some days the sketches come out blurry or awkward or just inexplicably bad, but today she's on a freaking roll. She shades in his curly-floppy-wavy hair and gives his cheekbones and nose some more definition after sharpening the quickly dulled graphite. Violet can't believe how well the sketch has turned out. It still needs some work done; she needs to shade the man's horrendous choice in outerwear (a bathrobe? Really?) and give him a background. However, the "Lunch Is Over" alarm is beeping and she needs to go. She sighs, not wanting to go back to work but resigning herself to another four hours of abject torture.

And that's when a hand that is suspiciously not her own grabs the sketchbook right out of her lap.

"Hey, you wanker, give that back!" Vi yells, but is interrupted by a rude hand gesture. She glares daggers at Mr Perfect Subject, who is now examining himself. Well, her drawing of him. God, how embarrassing.

"You have talent, but lack direction;" he states simply. "And I suggest that you ask permission before you go doodling random passersby."

"And you should ask permission before taking people's things, dickhead!" she growls, snatching the book out of his calloused hands. She thwacks him over the head with her farro dish before vamoosing off in the direction of the museum.

She catches him thunking heavily onto her bench out of the corner of her eye with the most priceless expression on his face. It's a (quite frankly adorable) mix of confusion, hurt, and longing look that he's directing at that poor skull. Suddenly he reminds her of Jeff, and she feels absolutely horrid for clubbing him over the head with dirty dishware. Even if he did insult her artwork.

She jogs back to the bench and plunks down next to him. "Sorry for whacking you with my dishes," she says breathlessly. "You probably didn't deserve that." Perfect Subject snorts and pulls a face; apparently, he's of the opinion that he did deserve to get knocked around a bit. "I'm Vi, by the way. I work in the art museum over there, and I really didn't mean any harm by drawing you. You're the most interesting thing that's graced the park in a good long while."

"And why would I care?" How rude. Vi doesn't think his physical appearance quite reflects his nasty personality, but then again, she doesn't look how she acts, either. She contemplates leaving, but decides that this is the most interesting thing that's happened all week and she's going to see it though.

"Just making conversation. You seemed lonely, so..."

"I am _not_ lonely."

"De Nile isn't just a river in Egypt, it seems."

"Excuse me?" He sneers again, and somehow, Violet doesn't take offense, but determines that it's a sign of his social awkwardness.

"De Nile? Denial? Gosh, you really must be alone if nobody's taught you that one." Violet jokes, smiling her 'open up and talk to me, goddammit' smile, but it doesn't seem to be having an effect.

"I'm not lonely." he repeats, as he sits there, looking all lonely.

"I can sense that you don't want to talk about it. In that case, let me tell you about my week."

"I don't care what you do. Your life holds absolutely nothing of interest for me."

"Jeez. A little harsh. Cuts me right here." Vi holds her hands to her heart in mock pain and tries to hold back her sniggers. _What a grump._

She takes another look at him, this time trying to figure out his personality rather than his looks. He has tired eyes and a violinist's hands. From the little she's heard from him, he's highly intelligent and possibly a delinquent. Regularly employed people don't wander around the park at one thirty in the afternoon (also, what's with the nightie?). He's ten-plus years older than her, but still strangely wiry._ Maybe he works out instead of working?_

"Let's talk about you, then. We'll start easy. What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"Oh, wow, that's a _name_ right there."

"If you're only going to make fun of me, then why am I putting up with you?"

"Thought I was the one asking questions." Vi grins at his obvious irritation. Somehow, she senses that he doesn't get on well with many people.

"I don't have time for this. I have a case to solve." He makes no move to leave, or even to stand. _That starved for attention, huh? _She sees in in his little tics; the sudden smiles and then immediate frowns afterward; in the way he's worrying at the edges of the patches on his robes.

"Oh, so you're a policeman?" she asks politely. He certainly doesn't_ look _like a policeman, but anything to get him talking.

"Hardly." he scoffs.

"A PI?"

"Absolutely not."

"A lawyer, then?"

"No."

"What _do_ you do?"

She spends several minutes trying to wheedle it out of him before he says "consulting detective" like it's supposed to mean something. She tries to get him to explain, but he stubbornly refuses to talk about his work.

"Moving on. When did you get dumped like a sack of potatoes, if you don't mind me asking?" They're sitting sideways on the bench facing one another. Face to face conversations make the patient feel more secure, or so her idiot professor, Ella, says. Doctor Ella is also famous for misdiagnoses, so Vi has never been quite sure how much of her advice it was wise to take. Violet's personal style demands for a distraction, so she has her sketchpad open again, drawing Sherlock's sad, lonely face from the front this time. He seems captivated by the sweep of her pencil, and she absentmindedly hopes that it's hypnotic enough to get him to open up.

"I've not been dumped!" he says scornfully. And then, quietly, almost timidly, "That's not really...my area."

"Unrequited love, then?" she inquires, shading in his lips. His lips. The sketch's lips. Whatever.

"No!" he sits back and crosses his arms and hunches in on himself.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Unrequited love it is." she grins, bopping him on the nose with her pencil.

"I'm not in love. I'm a sociopath; I'm incapable of it."

"Are you kidding? Sociopaths don't feel emotions, and you're over here, obviously dealing with some seriously raging feelings. I'm studying to be a therapist on the side, just so you know. I can identify when someone is having _feelings_. I'm not an idiot, even though you clearly think I am. Plus, you're just too cute for that. You're like...an otter. Did you know they hold hands while they're sleeping, so they don't drift apart?"

"If I ever did, I deleted it. Useless information." Violet raises her eyebrows in an unspoken request for an explanation, but doesn't get one as he goes off on another tangent. "People don't _like_ me, anyways. Sexual attraction, yes, plenty. But as a romantic interest, I'm afraid I'm intolerable."

"Exactly, little otter. You're afraid." _Oh, goddamn, I am going to be a fucking amazing therapist. I am just too good at this shit, _she surmises. "_I_ like you just fine; and something tells me that there's someone who loves you very much."

"What makes you think that?"

"Your ugly bathrobe is messily patched in three separate places, and you don't seem like the sewing type, or the kind of guy who lives with his mum until he's forty." She taps his patched elbows and pocket. "So, who's the girl? Spill the deets."

His mouth forms a little 'o' of surprise. His entire body seemed to say, '_intelligence? From her? Has the world ended?!_'

Vi just raises her eyebrows further. Waggles them around a bit for emphasis.

"Girl? There's no '_girl_,' unless you count Molly. But she's certainly not the one who's patched my robe. That was _John_."

Oops. First mistake. _You know what they say about assuming_, Vi chastises herself. Then she plows on forward: "Oh, that's it! Your eyes sparkled and you got a honey glow when you said 'John.' I am _so_ good at this."

"John doesn't love me. He kicked me out of the flat six days ago." he says haughtily, as if he only wanted to prove her wrong.

"You serious?" Vi frowns. As much as she loves playing matchmaker, she can't fix something that Sherlock has already broken.

"Yes. He had a list of complaints."

"What did you do wrong?"

"I believe insulting his intelligence and keeping entrails in the loo were his biggest grievances." His cupid's bow turns down, and now he doesn't look like an otter, but more like a kicked puppy who thinks he's deserved it.

"I actually believe that you did that. Oh, honey." She gives him a hug and he stiffens in surprise. "You've gone and screwed that one up, huh?" He relaxes into her shoulder (Vi imagines that he only does so when he determines that she means no harm) and not-quite-cries.

"There, now. Violet Hunter is nothing if not a relationship mechanic. I threw up on my flatmate's shoes the first time we met, and now we're best friends!"

"Nonsense. Nobody could fix this, not even me. Not even Mycroft."

"Well, I don't know who Mycroft is, but he sounds like an idiot."

"I think you just upgraded yourself to 'tolerable' on the list of people I associate with."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Ah, Holy Mary! We've been gabbing out here for three hours! Well, no point in going back to work today. And as I've already spent a considerable amount of time trying to wheedle this story out of you and I will quite possibly be fired in the morning, I'm going to see this through even if it kills us both. It should be good therapist practice, if I'm gauging the amount of issues you and your beau have correctly." Vi grins a sly wolf grin, and Sherlock seems mildly concerned.

"Sherlock, what does John look like?"

"Blonde hair, blue eyes, one hundred and seventy centimeters tall, muscular," he recites. Violet almost abandons him right then and there due to the utterly emotionless description of the man Sherlock is supposed to be in love with, but then she catches his whispered addendum: "_beautiful_."

"What's he like? Not looks. Personality-wise."

"He doesn't try to talk me out of my moods...he just waits them out. He always makes tea when he's upset. He once put a psychopath in a headlock to save my life when he was strapped in Semtex. He stood up to my brother. He wears atrocious jumpers. Absolutely horrifying, but I find them...him...attractive...anyway. He loves the opera, but he's never told anyone but me because he worries that it will ruin his reputation with his _mates_. Idiots, the lot of them.  
_That, _Vi thinks,_ is beautiful in a way that I hope to one day experience. Even if it comes with body parts in the loo and fights that get people kicked out. _From the sounds of it, John is brave and extremely protective (possessive?) and quite possibly the most perfect man on the face of the planet. And if he's not, it is very, very clear that he is _to Sherlock_. But the story's not over yet. Sherlock takes another breath and continues:

"He laughs at crime scenes when he thinks I'm being amusing. He tolerates my impromptu violin concertos. He's abandoned every date in the past two years because of me. He doesn't expect me to change."

"What makes a relationship, Sherlock?" Violet smiles and taps her temple – _Think about what you've just said, Sherlock. Because that's __**exactly**__ it._

Wait for it.

Wait for it...

Wait fo–

_"Oh!"_ Sherlock gasps. His mouth falls open and he very much looks like the kid who's finally figured out that _mummy was right all along_.

"Let's catch a cab," she demands, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the road. "Now, what's your address?"

As the cab stops, Sherlock growls to the driver, "Baker Street, please."

Wait, wait, wait, _wait_. Back it up for a second. Did he say one-seventy centimeters? Oh, _lightbulb_.

"Actually," purrs Violet with another ominous smirk, "Let's stop off at mine first. I think I've got a plan."

**A/N: **I borrowed Violet Hunter from ACD's _The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. _Read it, it's a good one. Hell, they're _all_ good ones. Read them. The "red and blue circles" painting I mentioned is for real. . .us/uploadedImages/VMFA/Collections/Mid_to_Late_20 th-Century_Art/VMFA_85-396_v1_KW_x_ And I for real do not understand it.


End file.
